Run On, Sentences

Cascading words, tumbling thoughts, occasional lucidity.

lenten conversation

I am in hell
I am in prison
I am in pain

I don’t like it, I don’t want it
I don’t like it, I don’t want it
I don’t like it, I want it

I can’t change anything
I can’t change anything
I can change anything

Can you change my situation?
Can you change me?

Will you change my situation?
Will you change me?

I will visit you in hell, Judas
I will forgive you.
You will be free.

I will switch places with you, Barabbas
I will forgive you.
You will be free.

I will visit you in your hell, reader,
I will find you in your prison
You can be free


Fluttering in the Wind

The young boy stood on the busy city corner, clutching his shoebox to his chest as the wind gusted around him. Like every good boy taught by parents and teachers, he diligently looked both ways, watching the traffic as he waited for the light to change.

The boy was out of place on the corner, surrounded by streams of business suits and shopping bags going somewhere. Passersby paused mid-journey, pulling up their collars against the bitter airstream, only to resume their migration when the light changed. The boy simply stood, enduring loose bits of clothing fluttering with each gust. He checked for traffic, the light changed, he waited. He checked for traffic, the light changed, he waited. His only movement was to occasionally change his grip on his shoebox.

Every child has his treasures. To the weary adult these baubles of a child are merely trinkets – a rock from the beach, a plastic bead, a rubber ball. But to their owner, these nothings are pearls of great price. The child had several of these pearls in his shoebox.

He remained standing through seventeen light changes. A few pedestrians wavered when they saw this unattended child on a busy street corner, but no one remained long enough to do anything. The wind pushed them on.

The light changed for the eighteenth time, and a blue SUV with fluttering sports flags approached the intersection. As it was about to pass through, the boy bolted into traffic and clenched his eyes to the oncoming disaster.

Screams and screeching tires filled the air as the vehicle struck the boy, throwing him to the other side of the intersection. His already lifeless body landed and the shoebox he had so carefully guarded flung open, scattering its contents across the road. The driver of the SUV ran to the child, and when he saw the boy’s face he fell to his knees with a wail. His son was dead.

With howls and groans the man fell upon his broken child. He did not notice the now empty shoebox, nor did he notice the scattered trinkets. The rock from their last vacation rolled into the gutter. The toy car from the boy’s last birthday lay smashed against a building. The photo of father and son soaked up water from a puddle. And the letter the man wrote to his wife when he moved out of the house last week fluttered in the wind as it sailed away.

writer’s block

There's a mammoth obstruction in the hallway from my brain to my hands. It's
right in front of the french doors to my imagination garden. Words try to sq
ueeze by, but they get stuck and eventually give one of those blowing-air-ou
t-your-mouth sighs and sit down. Sometimes, to pass the time, they play chec
kers or go back into the garden to read or tend other growing words. But eve
ry morning they're at it again, looking for a way out. Just this morning I s
aw some gridlocked words poking their heads above the block, waving at me, t
rying to get my attention (as if I didn't know the block was there). I half-
heartedly waved back and gave them a "I know" shrug. I think in time I'll be
able to pass this obstruction, like one passes a kidney stone, but in the me
antime I stare at a blank page until I get bored and move on to my dry day.


travel assurance

I jumped into my time machine, travelled back so I could glean a glimpse of him who used to call, but now whose silence caused my stall. I wanted to to see a miracle or some sort of empirical data that would settle doubt if my trust should be cast out. I found a man with gathered crowds, who followed him like dry rainclouds. they just wanted fish and loaves, pleased to be fed and clothed. that was not enough for me, there was more I had to see. I want a blaze of massive power for my hungry faith's devour. I pushed myself up to the front, and told him of my treasure hunt. surely he would understand and give the sign that I demand. he looked at me with soft-heart eyes and told me that I was unwise. signs are for the weak, he said you can be strong instead. I stood still, he kept walking, crowds passed by, always flocking. what the hell was that, I thought as my desires came to naught. what do I do with an enigmatic man pleased to grow a stigmata tan, yet not willing to meet my need and attend to me as I decreed? I chased after this creator, convinced he was my faith's traitor. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him back and began my attack. all my hurt and anger spewed, I will never follow you! I caused the crowd to unify and shouted first, crucify! now I'm empty and alone my faith shipwrecked, my anger blown, but as I sit, my spirit poor, I hear a knocking at the door.

Cantata of Theology

creation's overture smashes silence with crashing cymbals and Tchaikovsky's cannons but a crack of dissonance sounds and weeping strings lament the falling first movement an austere second movement begins, played by an exacting brass quintet followed by woodwinds blown by musicians in hair shirts timpani begin to swell and the orchestra holds its breath, tarrying for the virtuoso but a toddler walks on stage. he is laughing and bleeding the holy harp sounds and other instruments join the song broken musical vessels and discordant voices blend in beauty and grace a towering, grandiose finale echoes the overture, only better composer and conductor, the Triune God, turns to face his audience I stand to my feet with all creation in thunderous applause

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